


Untitled (as for now)

by thewolfhoundandlittlebird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Asoiaf - Fandom, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, California, F/M, Flashback, Modern SanSan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:56:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolfhoundandlittlebird/pseuds/thewolfhoundandlittlebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story's been twiddling around in my mind for a few weeks now, and it needed to get out.</p><p>Don't worry, it's not the end. ;)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Untitled (as for now)

**Author's Note:**

> This story's been twiddling around in my mind for a few weeks now, and it needed to get out.
> 
> Don't worry, it's not the end. ;)

That morning, the sun had shone blindingly, as if were not already privy to how the day would unfold. Or maybe it had been the wine from the night prior. Likely. He could hold down his stomach well after all these years, but he could never quite stop the dull throb between his temples or the sensitivity that begged for a dark room and some quiet. But the benefits of being able to block out their stares, temporarily calm the rage inside him vastly outweighed the consequences of too much wine.

So there, in the warm glow of the sandstone, one arm propping him up against the wall, he gathered himself in the corridor before knocking on her door. Shouldn't someone else always be sent to collect the girl? Not that he particularly minded seeing her; it was her chirping he couldn't stand. Always with the courtesies, though she'd gotten better over the years at remembering not to call him ser.

But the Bread riots had started it all over again, as if the man who'd attacked her had erased all the programming he'd been working on, as well as her maidenhead. He'd been too late to save that, but at least he'd gotten there before they'd killed her, and at least she'd kept her mouth shut about it.

He'd told her on the walk back up to the keep that day that she'd need to 'take care of it.' The gentlest thing he could think to say in the moment. Told her to get that handmaiden of hers to get the necessary remedy for it.

Though then, as she stood before him with that too-tight dress of hers stretched over her teats, he wondered if she'd listened, or if she'd come up with some other solution. There was only one that made any sense, and the extra curve under that dress meant that she'd not heeded his advice. Stupid girl. Gone and made herself useless in this vipers nest. Didn't she know her claim was the only thing of worth to these fools, and her maidenhead was the only way to guarantee it?

Couldn't very well be a maiden with a babe growing in her belly.

 

* * *

 

The King had been his usual pompous self, there in the dusty air of the great hall, the slits of the high windows still letting in too much light for the throb in his head. The first hours were a blur, business that frankly the Hand should have been able to deal with instead of the King, but the singling out of the little bird was acute.

The twat had her pulled from the edges, put on display in the center of the room for all attendants to devour. He'd said something about her traitorous brother, or maybe it was her mother. Or it could have been her, for all he knew, as he was too intent on watching the Kingsguard knights around her to pay attention to the words. How they circled when Joffrey commanded them to, how they stopped when he whined another order. Oh, how he'd love to just sink a bit of steel between his ribs. See the royal blood ooze out of him.

But his daydreams were shattered at the mention of his moniker. “Dog, pay attention.” He straightened. Had the play in his head been that obvious?

The King carried on with his speech, that too-familiar slimy smirk plastered on his face. “Lady Sansa, this brings me to an important point I've recently been informed of.” Voice high and sniveling, that of a boy and not a man. Not a true king. But he would remember the words to the end of his days, those that had shattered her world and her worth. “I hear you are with child.”

Her hand had gone instinctively to her belly, a movement not lost on Sandor's now eagle-sharp eyes, honed to the girl standing below them. A fated move. If she'd been able to lie her way out of it before, she wouldn't be able to after that. Not after an accusation and a subconscious admission of guilt. Not that being raped had been any fault of her own. It had been his, if anyone's, for letting her out of his sight that day.

“I beg pardon, your Grace?”

“Lady Sansa, I hear that you're carrying a babe. Congratulations.”

Her usual decorum faltered, she stammered out something meant to delay him while she gathered her thoughts.

“Oh, and may I wish the father congratulations as well?” Those green snake eyes glinted, enjoying how she wriggled under his fangs. But then he'd turned to Sandor, much to his surprise. “I know how you look at her, dog. Everyone does.”

The King clapped a hand on his shoulder, a fly against a stone, and it was all he could do to keep his face schooled to resemble the rest of his body. “Good job giving her what she deserved.”

 _The fuck?_ A million thoughts swarmed at once: of getting her to safety, because he had a bad feeling where this was going, of running the King through, though that would mean certain death for a lowly dog... Of the absurd notion that she would ever let him rut with her.

Except _of course_ that's not what the King meant. _Of course_ it wouldn't have been voluntary. There'd been a certain, burning pang at the implication that surely she wouldn't have _wanted_ it.

The girl shuffled about below them, separated from the crowd along the walls, from where he stood on the dais, and her hand still clutched her belly, pretty pink mouth still trying to come up with the words to talk herself out of this. Despite usually being quite able to persuade the King against hasty moves, Sandor found no words of her defense coming to him that morning.

An inadequate ' _what?'_ was all he'd been able to muster.

Then the King sneered and shouted out some more orders, a half dozen Kingsguard rushed about and the girl screamed. Too-strong hands ripped her delicate gown and suddenly she was standing before the court pulling at the remains of her dress to cover herself, a swollen belly now on display for all to see. Ser Meryn grinned like a canary-filled cat behind her, and though Sandor reached for his cloak to offer her, it was a gesture too late.

There were too many steps, too great a distance to cover in the space of time between the words leaving the King's lips and  Ser Meryn's dagger sinking into her skin. For the second time in his life, he had been too slow. 

He could hear the crowd c r ackling  like fire set to that black powder from the east, and when he finally reached her seconds later, it was already too late. A pierce to her belly, a slit to her throat, and all he could do was wrap  her up in him, terrified blue eyes and shivering shoulders and a mouth that tried fruitlessly to say final words.  He thought of things to say to her as he watched her life fade,  _'it's alright, little bird,'_ and _'you're free now,'_ and _'I'll kill them all,'_ but shock or rage or a thousand other emotions prevented him from saying any of them. 

Two years he'd looked after her. And all for what? Her life gone in a minute's time.

 

* * *

 

He couldn't remember exactly who he'd killed that day, or if he  even  had. Everything else was  clouded over. But he  _did_ remember Tywin, livid beyond description. Cersei, despite how much he hated the bitch, appropriately sympathizing with the girl. Too little, too late. Maybe it would have done some good if they'd cared when she was alive.

It had been some miracle that he'd had the mental faculties to lobby to get the girl's body out of the city. Something about the Starks were still alive; wouldn't appreciate her being murdered. Something about the body wouldn't last transport. Burning it would call too much attention. Best to bury her.

 

And so he found himself under an  old  oak overlooking the city, the same one he'd sit under on the rare occasion of having a day off and not feeling like drinking himself into oblivion. He shoveled the last of the dirt over her,  and slumped back against the trunk of the tree. Should he mark her grave? Somehow it didn't seem like a good idea, and yet it was also wholly inappropriate for a Lady of her status to just be dumped into some pauper's pit. He settled on carving a bird into the trunk of the tree, illuminated by the dying light of the setting sun, and he hoped when he was done that it didn't just look a shapeless gash in the bark.

What had that stupid boy king done? He'd no idea of the domino chain he'd just knocked over. Holding her essentially as a hostage in the court was bad enough, but to murder her?  The Starks would assail the capital's gates soon enough, and he didn't exactly feel the need to be there when they did.

Honor was his code, and the King had none. He couldn't justify being his dog any longer. And so there, under that old oak with only the shivering leaves and the bones of a Northern Lady to hear him, he vowed to leave that night.

 

* * *

 

There wasn't much in the way of packing to do before he set out, but surely there wouldn't be another tavern or the whores that circled their halls for a great long while. Stranger waited outside impatiently for his owner while Sandor ducked into the last shithole he could find on his way out of town. Several flagons of Dornish red and a toss with some easy whore, and maybe he'd be able to forget the way the life had faded from those clear blue eyes.

Not likely. M ight have needed a barrel of wine.

He was so piss-drunk by the time that wench descended on him, he'd only remembered bits and pieces of what she'd said to him. Something about searching forever and pretty Northern lasses and you're a fool to think she'd love you.  _What the fuck else is new?_ But one thing shone out like a golden coin in the muck of his drunkenness:  _'the Lannisters send their regards.'_


End file.
